Miss Independent
by LuxKen27
Summary: Post-canon. He had many reasons to love her, and she just kept giving him more…
1. Miss Independent

**Title:** Miss Independent

**Author:** LuxKen27

**Universe:** Post-canon

**Genre**: Romance

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Language, innuendo

**Word Count:** 3,915

**Summary:** He had many reasons to love her, and she just kept giving him more…

**DISCLAIMER: **The _Kids Incorporated_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (i.e., I am writing about the _characters_, not the _actors_ who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

"I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten" lyrics © 1968 Clive Westlake

"Stay Awhile" lyrics © 1963 Ivor Raymonde / Mike Hawker

"Wishin' and Hopin'" lyrics © 1963 Burt Bacharach / Hal David

"You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" lyrics © 1965 Pino Donaggio Vito Pallavicini / Vicki Wickham / Simon Napier-Bell

.xxxxx.

_It isn't the way that you look_

_And it isn't the way that you talk_

_It isn't the things that you say or do_

_That make me want you so_

_Never before have I been so sure_

_You're the someone I dreamed I would find…_

.xxxxx.

There were many reasons for him to love her.

There was what everyone else saw: six feet of absolute glamour – her ocean-blue eyes framed by honey-blond hair; her long, lean, lithe body (with legs that went on for about five or six miles); her flawless makeup, stylish wardrobe, gorgeous jewelry – and the sort of supreme confidence to carry it all off. She was smart, successful, and kind, holding seats on the executive boards of just as many charities as she did fashion houses.

And then there was everything else.

He loved her because she was fiercely independent, because she'd traveled her own tough road in the equally fickle world of fashion, and because she was proud of her work. She was an artist in her own right, making magic with bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and reams of accessories.

He loved her because she'd pursued her own career instead of waiting for his.

He loved her for her honesty, her intelligence, her sense of humor. She was sharp-witted, but mercifully lacked the oft-accompanying acid tongue. Rare was the time she cut someone down, though she was willing to, as necessary. Behind her public persona, she had a reputation for being mean, but he suspected that was mostly because she was clever – and everybody knows that pretty blonde girls are only supposed to be dumb.

She'd never been unkind to him (not when he hadn't deserved it, at least).

Indeed, she was all too willing to listen to him moan and complain, and he loved her for it. He loved her for all the times she'd ordered in and kept the alcohol flowing while he ranted about the temperamental artists he had to put up with, and the jackass record execs he had to please. He loved her because she trusted him enough to give him a key to her apartment, along with implicit permission to crash there anytime. She didn't mind the ridiculous hours he kept (which were only _partly_ his fault), or that he showed up at all hours of the night (or day). His own place was all the way across the city; it was comfortable and affordable, but inconvenient when someone got a bug up their ass about mixing, mastering, and delivery deadlines.

He loved her because her apartment was always filled with music – not his, but _hers_: her eclectic collection of old school hits, classic punk, alternative rock, modern pop, and soulful blues. He never knew what would be playing when he walked through her door, whether it would be something old and familiar, or new and interesting.

As long as it wasn't silence, he didn't care.

He loved it when she _was_ at home when he dropped by, an increasingly rare treat these days. Her designs were in demand now, during the dead of winter, as she rushed to meet deadlines for next season's spring/summer collections. As the weather warmed, her body would be in demand, too – as the perfect slate on which to model those designs – and she'd be off to London, Paris, Milan, Berlin or beyond, as her schedule dictated.

As much as he loved her, he didn't love _that_ – which was probably why they maintained separate apartments, why he'd made her living room sofa his crash pad, and why they hadn't slept together since college.

He didn't mind – much. He'd rather have a part of her than nothing at all. He cherished their friendship, still strong after almost twenty years. It had endured everything, from first kisses to broken hearts.

Many, many broken hearts.

Ryan sighed, cracking his eyes open only to meet the harsh rays of daylight. He groaned, turning his face into the pillow, and he willed his head to stop pounding. It had turned into a complete shitshow at the studio last night, the artist, his manager, and the album's producer coming to blows over the rhythm track of this damn song that they'd been slaving over for the last week. Tempers had flared, fists had flown, and he'd only barely escaped the scuffle with a couple of glancing blows.

_Fucking divas_, he thought sourly, pushing the memory of the pulsating bass line firmly out of his mind. _They all think they can write, like it's that fucking easy or something._ He'd long ago learned to stay out of artists' ways when it came to their egos clashing with everyone else's good ideas. He hadn't made it ten years in this business by being stupid, after all. He wrote, he produced, and he kept his mouth shut – unless someone brought it to his door.

Last night's session had been the worst he'd seen in a while. The whiny, demanding little jackass of a lead singer dared to argue with him over a rhythm track when he couldn't even _read_ the damn music he was complaining about. The band had been totally useless; their manager only made things worse; when the album's producer got in on the fracas, all hell had broken loose.

Needless to say, he wasn't looking forward to going back.

No, if he had his way, he'd lounge around all day in Stacy's apartment, in his warm cocoon of blankets on her sofa, and just shut out the rest of the world. She was home, or at least she had been when he arrived last night; she'd bandaged his scrapes and stayed with him for a little while, slipping off to her own bed after he'd fallen asleep.

It was one of those nights when he'd wished that she hadn't left; he sensed that she was under some serious stress herself, if only because of the way she (finally) relaxed into him while he held her in his arms. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel the tension in her shoulders as she lay against him, the stiffness of her frame slowly melting away as she curled her body into his. It had lulled him to sleep, but obviously not her.

He frowned at the memory, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. He waited for his blood to settle before pressing his fingertips gingerly against his temple. It was still tender beneath the gauze, and probably ready for a new bandage, but his thoughts had already wandered away from his lacerations. He and Stacy might not have been as close as they once were, but it had been rather obvious that something was weighing heavily on her mind last night, and it bothered him that she hadn't told him about it.

It was probably none of his business – and he could respect that – but still, it bothered him.

He sighed again, running his hands through his hair as he contemplated his next move. Dimly, he became aware of the soft lilt of music drifting his way, and he smiled. It meant that she was still home – she always had something spinning in the background when she was around. Last night it had been Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she'd fallen in love with on her first trip to Stockholm ages ago.

He sat up a bit straighter, closing his eyes in order to concentrate on the music emanating into the room. It was full-bodied and bluesy, probably something from the sixties, but he couldn't decipher much more than that. With one last, lingering look at his cocoon of blankets, he got up, picking up his hoodie from the floor and sliding it on as he followed the music down the hall.

Stacy's apartment was luxurious by Manhattan standards – two bedrooms with a connecting bath, a full kitchen, a spacious living room, and her own washer/dryer nestled in the midst of a walk-in closet. Not _her_ closet, of course, but the other one, which took up most of the second bedroom. Ryan wasn't surprised when he found her (and the music) there.

Here was another reason why he loved her: she was comfortable enough with his presence to look like this, half-dressed with her hair hastily pulled back, elbow deep in her laundry.

He slumped against the doorframe of the bedroom, tucking his hands into his pockets as he gazed at her, standing inside the closet and folding towels. She wore a simple, three-quarter length fleece bathrobe, belted snugly at her waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was tied in a simple ponytail, the end of it curling naturally over her back. She was singing along with Dusty Springfield while she worked, swaying absently to the beat of the music.

"Show him that you care just for him / do the things he likes to do," she crooned, pulling another towel from the dryer. "Wear your hair just for him, 'cause…" Her voice dropped into her sultry alto range, her hips dipping over the suggestive bridge: "You won't get him / thinkin' and a-prayin' / wishin' and a-hopin'…"

It amused him to listen to her sing such lyrics. She'd never done anything to change herself in order to attract his attention – she'd simply been _her_. Even when they were teenagers, her inner beauty shone through the veneer of awkward insecurity, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame. She was special, even if she couldn't see it yet.

He'd always love that about her – that she'd trusted him, and let him help her discover the poise and pride in the very center of her being.

"'Cause wishin' / and hopin' / and thinkin' / and prayin' / plannin' / and dreamin' / his kisses will start," she sang, placing another folded towel on the stack, "that won't get you into his heart…"

Nope: the path to his heart had been carved by her voice. He'd always loved her voice. She'd really come into her own during their final few years with Kids Incorporated – it was confident and strong, her range was impressive, and she had the sort of stage presence most of his current artists would kill for. He'd been surprised when she gave it all up after high school – he remembered the countless hours he'd spent trying to convince her to change her mind. She was too good to not pursue her music, he'd argued, even if only semi-professionally.

She'd refused. Fashion was her future, she'd declared – and, he had to admit, she'd been right.

Still. After he'd landed his first substantial gig with bit of extra studio time, he'd begged her to come in and record a track, just for fun and old times' sake. It had backfired, big time – she broke up with him that afternoon – but that request was never far from his mind. More than once he'd sat at a sound board, wishing it was her sweet voice tunneling through the wires and into his ears, instead of the high-pitched squeals of some token pretty-girl lead singer.

"So if you're thinking of how great true love is," she continued, her voice rising along with Dusty's, "all you gotta do is / hold him / and kiss him / and squeeze him / and love him / yeah, just do it, and after you do / you will be his…" She curled her arms around herself, her shoulders swaying in time with the music, a small smile rising to her lips.

_Or you could just serenade me_, he considered as he pushed himself upright once more. Warmth and longing spiraled through his abdomen as he crossed the room towards her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She was facing away from him by the time he reached her, having pulled the last of the towels from the dryer. He wrapped his arms around her waist as the song came to an end, startling her, though not enough to stop her from singing: "You will be his…"

He smiled, drawing her close and offering, "_He will be yours,_" instead, directing his words into the shell of her ear.

She brushed her fingers over his where he held her. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I didn't mind waking up," he replied, tightening the brace of his arms around her.

She sighed, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. Companionable silence fell over them as they stood there and listened to Dusty's soulful voice fill the air around them.

He closed his eyes, relishing the way it felt to hold her in his arms. Her warmth seeped into him, the brush of her robe soft against his skin. He could feel the rhythm of her breathing, smooth and soothing, the subtle rise and fall of her ribcage, just inside his elbows, intoxicating him. It was enough to lull him – with security, with serenity.

If he tried hard enough, he could forget the ache of longing that filled him whenever he held her; forget the distance that drove them apart; forget how much – and how ardently – he loved her.

She shifted against him with a sigh, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking her head into his chest. It was enough to break his dreamy reverie, to bring him spiralling back down to reality as Dusty's soaring vocals proclaimed, "You don't have to say you love me / just be close at hand…"

He sensed her melancholy in the way she held him, the way her arms closed tightly around his waist, and in the way she held herself – the tension coiled like a knot between her shoulders, the tautness of her frame. He furrowed his brow, resting his head on hers, lifting one hand to clasp her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. "Are you okay, Stacy?" he asked softly.

She didn't respond for a long moment, long enough to make him wonder if she'd even heard the question.

"It's the way you make me feel / the moment I am close to you," she sang, softly, quietly, her words reverberating into his chest, making him aware of the music again. "Makes today seem so unreal / somehow I can't believe it's true…"

She looked up and him, the intensity of her gaze instantly arresting him. "Tomorrow, will you still be here? / Tomorrow will come, but I fear…" She touched his face. "That what is happening to me / is only a dream…"

"Stacy," he whispered, taking hold of her hand, surprise and need and longing welling up inside him. "I – "

"Move in with me," she broke in.

His heart stopped, and then started to throb painfully against his ribs. "What?" he sputtered, not completely sure that he'd heard her correctly.

"Move in with me," she said again, her fingers drifting through his hair. "You practically live here already…why not make it official?"

He swallowed hard, his eyes falling closed. It wasn't the first time she'd asked him. He'd never been able to say yes, because living with her without _being_ with her would be absolute torture, and he wasn't that good of a man.

He could only live with temptation for so long.

Still – with her hands in his hair, and her body leaning into his, he was finding it a little difficult to refuse this time.

He worked hard to quell the hope and excitement that flared in his chest. "Where is this coming from, all of a sudden?" he ventured.

She sighed again, her eyes roving over his disheveled hair and traveling down the lines of his face. "It isn't 'all of a sudden,'" she replied, brushing her fingers over the bandage on his temple. "It's just… When you showed up on my doorstep last night, beaten and bloody…it scared me."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You know this hardly ever happens," he assured her gently. "It was one asshole artist with a temper, determined to take out his frustration on everyone else. I mean – I write music for a living, it's not like I deal cocaine."

"It doesn't matter," she returned, shaking her head, curling her hands around his neck and lowering his forehead to rest against hers. "I hate the thought of _anyone_ hurting you – and that – made me realize…."

Her eyes searched his for an achingly long moment; he felt his breath shutter in his lungs, his chest constricting over the frantic beating of his heart, and he couldn't stop himself from wanting to hear her _say it_, words he'd be longing to hear from her for _years_, words he was fairly sure he'd never hear again, after the last time…

_Being her friend is enough_, he reminded himself – only to realize that it wasn't.

He loved her, so much, to the point of physical pain. Maybe he'd just been kidding himself for all of these years, clinging to some tiny hope that she felt even half the love he had for her. She was beautiful, successful, intensely independent – she could have any man she wanted.

And he couldn't stop himself from wanting it to be him.

It felt like an eternity passing before she spoke again.

"It made me realize how much I love you," she finally said, closing her arms over his shoulders, oblivious to the wave of relief that flooded through him, "and how much I want you _here_, with me."

"Stacy, I – " he began.

"I _know_ it's not fair," she barreled on, "but I'm tired of trying to be fair. I can't help it – I love you, and I don't want to lose you. Not again." She shifted slightly, hugging him close. "Last night was a wakeup call."

It took a moment for his mind to slow down, for her words to sink in. He accepted her embrace, warmth and eagerness cascading over him as he closed his arms around her and thought about the night before. She hadn't fallen to pieces when she opened the door; she'd simply looked at him, assessed his scrapes and bruises, and led him to the kitchen, where she kept her first aid kit. She was calm and comforting as she cleaned and bandaged his wounds – just as she always was, whenever he needed it.

If the experience had shaken her, she'd hidden it well, in the moment.

"Last night – " he started, only to have her cut him off at the pass.

" – was temptation at its worst," she confessed, loosening her hold on him. She shook her head before pressing it to his again. "I wanted to stay with you."

"Then why didn't you?" he breathed, smoothing his hands up the planes of her back, drawing her body achingly close to his own.

"I couldn't," she whispered, her breath warm on his lips, her mouth torturously, dangerously near. "I didn't want to make you think it was only out of sympathy."

"When have you ever done _anything_ solely 'out of sympathy'?" he mused teasingly, brushing his lips over hers.

That simple little gesture was enough – she surged forward, into him, capturing his mouth with her own, twining her fingers through his hair as she kissed him, long and slow and deep. It was enough – to bring back memories, thoughts, feelings, desires – to make his chest ache as his heart shattered and reformed, brimming over with his love for her – to push him forward, beyond, unable to counter the tidal wave of emotion that crashed over him: love, and lust, and need, and want, joy and relief and the surge of confidence that came with understanding exactly what she meant: about wanting to stay, wanting to _be there_, with her.

It was wondrous and glorious and slightly overwhelming. As much as he'd wanted this, he never actually thought it would happen. Their history was long and tumultuous, filled with love and laughter, but also bitterness and heartbreak. Through it all, they'd somehow managed to remain friends – and he'd spent years loving her from afar, holding her hand and soothing her, supporting her and comforting her, letting her go when he wanted nothing more than to pull her close instead.

She was her own woman, standing in the middle of her own laundry room on a random Saturday afternoon, and with one kiss, she'd made him the happiest man on earth. She had the world at her feet, and what she wanted was _him_: a struggling musician who still had to deal with volatile artists and egomaniacal managers in order to have precious studio time, who occasionally had to fight – literally – to keep his integrity intact.

"Stay awhile / let me hold you," she murmured between kisses, raking her hands through his hair, bringing him back to the surface of his thoughts. Dimly, he became aware of the music that permeated their air around them, and the way she smiled against his lips as she sang along. "Stay awhile / 'til I've told you / of the love that I feel for you…"

He broke away from her, just far enough to gaze into her eyes, a warm flush of adrenaline coursing through his veins when he saw her love and desire reflecting back at him. "Do you serenade all of your boyfriends with Dusty Springfield lyrics?" he teased, sliding his thumb over the crest of her cheek.

She shook her head, the end of her ponytail curling over her shoulder as she smiled at him. "No," she returned cheekily, "the other ones get Madonna, or Aretha if I _really_ like them."

He pouted. "You wound me," he cried dramatically, clutching his hands over his heart.

She rolled her eyes as she moved away from him, opening the top of the washing machine and throwing the wet clothes into the dryer beside it. She turned back, eyeing each of the piles on the floor, as if trying to decide which one was next.

"You look like you're washing the entire contents of your closet," Ryan observed, stepping out of her way as she passed, apparently in search of something in particular. "Is this normal? Do I need plan for this?"

She shot him a wry look as she bent down to pick up a huge pile of dark-colored garments. "I have a business meeting in LA next week," she informed him, taking her load over to the washing machine and slowly feeding it in. "Fall/winter concepts – and trying to pry out of Pantone what the next color of the year will be."

He couldn't quite hide his disappointment. "You're leaving already?" he murmured, trailing after her. "But what will I do while you're away?"

"What you already do," she replied archly. "Come here at all hours of the day or night, eat everything in my fridge, freak out my neighbors, and then sack out on the sofa. Although," she mused, sending a coy look at him over her shoulder, "it might be nice to come home and find you in my bed, instead."

"Really," he contended, draping his arm over her shoulders as she measured the detergent and poured it into the basin of the machine. He drew her close as she lowered the lid. "You know," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek, just beside her ear, "there are a lot of reasons why I love you, but that one has to be my favorite."


	2. Cut scene - Stay the Night

Because I was curious about the night before, too… :)

"Stay the Night" lyrics © 2013 Anton Zaslavski, Hayley Williams, Benjamin Eli Hanna, Carah Faye

* * *

_I know that we are upside down_

_So hold your tongue and hear me out_

_I know that we were made to break_

_So what? I don't mind_

_I am a fire, gasoline_

_Come pour yourself all over me_

_We'll let this place go down in flames_

_Only one more time…_

.xxxxx.

The world thought they knew her, but very few people actually did.

Few people knew that her favorite part of the day was the end, when she could go home, kick off her heels, and step into a warm, welcoming shower. Sometimes she'd just stand there, under the cascade of water, enjoying the peace, the quiet – the stone cold silence.

It was the only time she truly had to herself.

The rest of her day was filled with requests and commands and orders and deadlines and sycophants. There was always someone (or some_thing_) demanding her attention, her direction, her action. She enjoyed the whirlwind, for the most part, but even she had her limits.

Only recently had she learned how to say no, and how to enforce her boundaries, even when pushed.

She'd earned it, after all. How well she remembered her days as a print model, when she had to sit or stand or pose for hours in awkward positions for editorials and haute couture shoots. How well she remembered her hair being dyed and chopped and fried beyond recognition, the layers of makeup and jewelry, the heavy brocades and (more often) the skimpy outfits. She'd be so tired and sore that by the end of the day she'd crawl into the bath, slowly stretching her arms and legs to work out the kinks and knots in her muscles. As the water grew tepid, she'd sit in the tub and methodically wash away the perverted innuendo – and shameless passes – from the creepy photographers and/or their assistants on set.

That first year had been brutal – but ultimately, it had been worth it.

She loved Europe. She'd met some amazingly talented people, and had painstakingly worked her way up the ladder, from the days of tear sheets into runway shows put on by the most prestigious fashion houses in the world. She'd transitioned from being in front of the camera to working behind it, designing bits and pieces of others' lines before being invited to start her own.

She'd learned how to deal with the expectations along the way, as well as their usual outcome: failure. She'd learned how to deal with fame (and infamy) in the catty, backstabbing world of fashion. She'd learned the hard way who her real friends were – who would keep her secrets, and who would blab to the gossip rags at the first opportunity – and that's why she allowed very few people to get close. She could count on one hand the people who knew the real Stacy: her parents, of course, and her sister, Renee; two or three friends from school; a clutch of girls from her modelling days. Everyone else knew the façade, her public persona as a beloved celebrity who said all the right words and did all the right things.

Few people had been privileged enough to watch that mask fall away in the privacy of her home.

She took her time in the shower, massaging shampoo into her meticulously well-cared-for hair; washing away her makeup; cleansing the sweat and grime of another day from her body. When she emerged, she was simply herself again, happy to slip into a pair of yoga pants and a tank, to let her hair air dry, to put lotion on the soles of her feet before covering them with thick, fluffy, aloe-infused socks.

Few people knew that she preferred to exercise at home, instead of frequenting a busy, noisy gym where she'd inevitably become the center of attention. She hated being scrutinized – she hated the knowledge that there were judgmental assholes out there, watching every morsel she put into her mouth, every drop of alcohol she consumed, how and when and what kind of workouts she did. Gossip magazines were one thing, but the day her mother had called her, worried sick over a story she'd heard fourth-hand about Stacy's supposed diet and exercise habits, was the day she'd stopped going to the gym.

Rumors already swirled around her: that she had an eating disorder; that she survived on cigarettes and cocaine; that she was a drunk mess; that she was heroin-chic. She didn't bother to quash them, but she didn't care to fuel them, either.

No, few people knew that after her long and leisurely evening shower, she pulled out her yoga gear and popped in a DVD, settling on her living room floor to soothe her soul and work out her stress and frustrations. Few people knew how many times she'd fallen asleep right there on the floor after completing her routine, or that she'd re-carpeted her entire apartment with wall-to-wall fluffy high-pile for just that reason.

Tonight she stayed awake, relaxed and meditative, and enjoyed the feeling of her creativity bubbling up just below the surface of her mind. She was in the midst of her spring/summer designs for next year, and was only one or two pieces away from finishing the collection. One of her sketches had been made into a prototype, which had been presented to her that afternoon, and she remembered the exact color and texture of the fabric, how it draped over the mannequin like liquid silk. She loved it when her first testers turned out so nicely, because it tended to bode well for the entire collection. She'd yet to have a miss in her line, which only raised the stakes even higher for each successive season.

Few people knew that she brought her work home more often than not, that she'd converted the second bedroom of her apartment into something of a studio, full of bits and pieces and her own hand-sewn samples. Few people knew that she liked to sit on the floor in the middle of the chaos and sketch on a giant artist's pad with charcoal pencils and Prismacolor markers. Few people understood that she had to have music on whenever she worked, that it was the lifeblood of her creativity and the only thing that kept her sane, sometimes.

Her hand slowed to a stop as she contemplated the music that permeated the air around her. She'd chosen the latest album by Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she'd been introduced to by one of her friends during her first cold, lonely winter in Europe. She'd purposefully chosen a Swedish-language release as her musical guide tonight, because she liked the driving beat of the faster songs, and identifying with the raw emotion of the slower ones.

And because any time she lingered too long on lyrics, she inevitably started to think about Ryan.

Not that thinking about him was unpleasant. He had been the center of her universe once upon a time – she had been so hopelessly, desperately in love with him as a teenager that she couldn't ever quite let go of her insecurity around him. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, spinning dangerously out of control when he left for college. They hung on, but the constant break-ups and make-ups took their unavoidable toll. Time couldn't heal the wound distance had ripped open, and she'd only made it worse when she'd left for Europe, to pursue the one dream in her life that didn't involve him.

It had been hard, but they had survived. He was still one of her dearest friends. Even now, years, later, he wasn't entirely out of her orbit. They lived in the same city, though they hardly ever crossed paths professionally. Personally? Well, that was a different story. He was the only person who'd never been mesmerized by the glitz and glamour of her life, probably because he worked with divas of a different sort on a regular basis. The music industry was just as cutthroat and catty as the world of fashion, and it was something they could – and did – commiserate over together. Their friendship now was casual, but with an undercurrent of intensity that had been built over the years by such a prolonged, closely-entwined personal history.

Few people in the world actually knew her, and he might be the only person who so thoroughly understood her. He'd been such an important part of her life for so long…

Sometimes she wondered if he knew her better than she knew herself.

She shook her head, turning back to her sketches. She worried her lower lip as she worked on shading a particular design. She hadn't seen him lately, which was not unusual. He was probably elbow-deep in a new album, or smoothing out the kinks of a new working relationship with a new artist.

_Or maybe a new relationship-relationship with a new artist…_

_Stop it,_ she commanded herself, picking up the remote for her stereo and jabbing at the volume button, as if she could drown out her own melancholy thoughts with the music. _His personal life is none of your business._

She frowned, turning the page on her pad, and bore down hard with her pencil, sketching a bold new line. The hardest part of being his friend had always been dealing with his romantic entanglements. At first, her jealousy had overwhelmed her, to the point where she pushed him to a far corner of her life; now, she mostly felt wistful. She loved him – maybe not as hopelessly or as desperately as she had when they were kids – but enough to want him to be happy.

He'd worked with some beautiful women. If one of them made him happy…

She sighed, leaning back against a box of fabric scraps. _Why am I suddenly thinking about him?_ she wondered, rubbing her temples. As her mind cleared, the music filled her ears, and she smiled wryly. _That's why_, she mused, recognizing the melancholy strains of "Hur jag fick dig att älska mig." She let the song play out before skipping ahead, finding one a little more upbeat.

She'd just settled back into her work groove when she heard a faint knocking sound. She sat up straight, inclining her head towards the hallway, unsure if she'd actually heard anything or not. The knocking started again, heavier this time, staccato and impatient against her front door.

"Oh hell, who could that be?" she muttered under her breath. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with someone else. It would require her to get up from the floor, to put on real clothes, to conjure up her game face: shit she just didn't have the time or inclination for, at the moment.

She gave serious consideration to staying exactly where she was, and maybe turning the music up even louder. She could wait out even the most patient paparazzo; besides, her building's security team knew better than to let them – or fans – up anyway. Everyone else – barring a very select few – was escorted to her door, and the escort always knocked once before announcing their name, their guest's name, and the nature of their business.

When the knocking didn't abate, she reluctantly stood up, drawing her hair over one shoulder and brushing her fingers through it as she moved down the hall towards the front door. "Who is it?" she called out crisply, hoping she didn't sound as unnerved and unsettled as she felt.

"Stace, please," came a muffled, pleading voice, "_please_, let me in."

Her heart dropped. There were exactly five people in the world who were still allowed to call her 'Stace': her parents, her sister, her best friend, and Ryan.

The thought of finding any of them in a state of distress on the other side of her door made her feel sick to her stomach.

She took a deep breath, carefully approaching the door and unlocking the deadbolt. She eased it open just enough for the chain to catch, and was startled when the person on the other side slumped against the doorframe, curling one hand around the knob.

"Ryan," she breathed, her heart throbbing painfully against her ribs as she quickly closed the door, freed the chain, and opened it once more. He hadn't moved, still leaning into the doorframe, his breath slow and jagged. The image of him standing there would forever be seared into her memory: disheveled, out of sorts, the beginnings of a bruise blooming up on his chest beneath his shirt. He was bleeding, albeit sparsely, and held a bloodstained cloth over the worst-looking cut on his right temple.

"Oh, God," she whispered disbelievingly, "what _happened_?!"

"Sorry, Stace," he mumbled, pressing himself back up into a standing position. He dabbed at the open wound on his forehead, swiping absently at another cut closer to his mouth with his free hand. "I don't mean to barge in like this, but…um…help?"

Wordlessly, she pulled him into her apartment, anxious to get a closer look at him in the harsh light of her foyer. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she examined him, tracing her fingers over his features, into his hair, under the collar of his shirt. For a long moment, she could only stare, caught somewhere between terror and tears, her mind stuck in neutral as horror and surprise and fear momentarily overwhelmed her.

She'd seen a lot of things in her lifetime, but a beaten and bloody person up close and personal had never been among them. That was bad enough on its own, but this was Ryan – _her_ Ryan, her sweet, gentle, friendly, non-violent Ryan. He was witty and sarcastic, far more inclined to fight with his words than his fists, but he'd never been one to provoke an attack…so who would do this to him?

And why?

She managed to pull herself together before she lapsed into shock. She closed and locked the door before taking his hand and leading him into her kitchen. She directed him to sit on one of the stools at her island as she busied herself with her first aid kit. She took a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep, quiet breath, before turning to face him once more.

"So what happened?" she asked again, laying the first aid kit on the island's tabletop and opening it up, pulling out fresh bandages and gauze.

He shrugged. "I merely got caught in the crossfire," he replied, watching her with some interest as she prepped her supplies. She ran a clean dishcloth under cold water, squeezing out the excess before turning back to him and gently pushing away the hand at his head.

She winced as she eyed the open cut, which was still oozing blood. "Really," she murmured, brushing his hair out of the way as she began to clean the wound. "It looks like someone beat the shit out of you." She bit her lip worriedly as the blood saturated the wet cloth.

"You should see the other guys," Ryan quipped. "They wound up in the hospital."

"Are you sure you _shouldn't_ go?" Stacy asked doubtfully. "This cut looks pretty deep."

He shuddered. "Do you think it needs stitches?"

She was silent as she continued to work on it. It was long and deep, extending into his hairline, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. A wave of relief washed over her when she realized that it wasn't as bad as it looked. "I don't think so," she finally said, rinsing out the cloth again before laying it over the laceration. "Hold this," she directed, indicating the dishcloth, "and keep your head up."

He complied without a word, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. She took the opportunity to clean and dress the other nasty-looking abrasion on his face, this one on his left jaw. It was more of a superficial cut, one that would probably heal without scarring, but somehow, it was turning out to be much trickier to bandage up. The closer she inched towards his mouth, the more her hands started to shake; she became hyperaware of her own shallow breathing, and of the way her heart raced against her ribs.

"Your hands are so warm," he murmured, clasping his free hand over one of hers and holding it in place, the backs of her fingers brushing against his chin, over the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. "It feels nice."

She flushed, but didn't pull away, not quite able to meet his gaze. "Thanks," she replied softly, gently pressing the last bandage into place with her knuckle.

He continued to hold her hand for a long moment, his gaze becoming warm and intense, before letting her go, turning his attention to his right temple. "I think it's stopped," he noted, lifting his hand away, along with the dishcloth.

She took a quick look at the now-dry wound, nodding in confirmation. "I'll be right back," she said, slipping out of the kitchen and reappearing a moment later with a handful of bobby pins.

Ryan sat up straight, chuckling as she pinned his hair back. "If only those guys could see me now," he mused.

"It's either this or I tape up half your head," she returned archly, carefully cutting the gauze to fit over his wound, then snipping a strip of tape the same length. "I think we know how they'll end up, anyway. They make the interns do this shit at the hospital."

"And I seriously doubt they have bobby pins lying around," he joked. His expression sobered almost immediately. "I hope they're okay, though, seriously – it was a pretty nasty fight."

"Looks like it," she intoned dryly, laying the bandage on his wound and smoothing the tape over it.

"And this _is_ just a couple of glancing blows," he continued, gesturing to his cuts and bruises. "The lead singer of the band and the album's producer got into it – a real knock-down, drag-out kinda thing." He shrugged. "This artist is a rare asshole who really _can_ back up his words with his fists. And when he wants his way, by God…"

She nodded mutely as she released his hair from the bobby pins. She knew how some people were about getting their way, and using their fists to ensure that other bent to their will. There were a couple of photographers who were notorious for their manhandling of models on set, and it infuriated her that they still commanded such a large share of print work.

She was startled from her grim thoughts when she felt Ryan's arms slide around her waist. "Thank you, Stacy," he said softly, pulling her close and resting his head on her chest. "You're a good nurse."

Warmth curled through her abdomen, rising and spreading as a rosy flush over her shoulders and down her arms. His was a welcome and familiar weight, stirring up memories and fluttering butterflies and old attraction. "I'm not finished with you yet," she managed after a moment, reaching for the zipper of his hoodie. "Let me see your bruises."

He allowed her to unzip the jacket and push it from his shoulders, grimacing as he reluctantly broke away from her, rising to his feet as he pulled his shirt over his head. She winced when she saw the patches of blueish-purple rising up from his chest to the left side of his neck, and another over the curve of his right shoulder. A quick inspection of his back reassured her that these were the only body blows he'd sustained, and that, unlike his face, he hadn't been hit hard enough to draw blood.

She couldn't resist tracing her fingertips down the length of his spine as he stood with his back to her, following the natural curve of his body from his neck to his waist. It was an impulsive move, one of admiration as much as examination, and not until she'd done it did she realize how much she _missed_ touching him so intimately.

Is it possible, she wondered, to forget attraction, or what it feels like to indulge it?

And, perhaps more importantly, why was she suddenly feeling it now, and so _strongly_? Why did it feel like it was taking every fiber of her being to stop herself from closing her arms around him and pressing her body into his?

Because it was.

The urge to hold him was so strong, so primal, so urgent and intense that it scared her.

She had to be fair – to him, to herself. They weren't teenagers anymore. They had lives – adult lives – _separate_ lives – with different interests, professions, priorities. She couldn't subject him to the pressure and scrutiny that came with living in her world: he was content with being in the background these days, with writing and producing and letting others have the spotlight.

Few people knew how selfishly she loved others – in fact, he was the only one who knew. She'd never loved anyone as deeply, as ardently, or as _much_ for as long as she'd loved him.

Suddenly, she felt queasy and light-headed, the muscles across her abdomen constricting painfully with each successive breath. Her chest felt heavy and raw, her thoughts, feelings, needs, and desires tumbling through her, swift and untamed. _This is a wakeup call_, she realized, her hands hovering over the planes of his back, his smooth, pale, alabaster skin. She felt herself flush hot, then cold, and then hot again, adrenaline soaking through her nerves, her fingertips tingling with anticipation and itching to touch.

"Stacy?" he said softly, his voice slicing through the heaviness of her thoughts. He tilted his head slightly. "Can I thank you yet?"

And, just like that, she snapped out of it, managing to resist temptation, lowering her hands and taking a step back. She summoned every ounce of reserve, pushing the dangerous whirl of thoughts and feelings firmly out of her mind.

"You don't have to thank me," she replied.

He turned, the sight of his injuries giving her another much-needed jolt of reality. "What if I want to?" he teased, easing his shirt back over his head.

When she hesitated in response, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her brow. "Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm on the shell of her ear.

She simply nodded, curling her arms around him, one hand clutching the back of his (good) shoulder while she traced the curve of his spine with the other.

He exhaled slowly, relaxing into her touch, drawing her body into his own. "Can I stay here tonight?" he murmured.

She swallowed hard. "You know you're always welcome here," she answered, working to quell the heat that blossomed in the very core of her being.

He kissed her again, one of his hands rising up into her hair to cradle the back of her head. Time seemed to slow to a standstill as he slowly peeled his body away from hers, as he shifted ever so slightly before leaning back into her, his lips lingering mere inches from hers –

She could see it coming, and she knew she should fight it, but she didn't – she _couldn't_, because she wanted him to kiss her, even though she knew it was wrong. _He was hurt, he was delirious_ – she shouldn't take advantage of him to satisfy her own desire. She couldn't let one little kiss conjure up all of her memories and mushy feelings and remembrances of how kind and gentle he was in bed; how patient and loving he'd been their first time, and every time after that; how she'd never had a considerate partner after him, and how much she missed that…and missed _him_…

She broke away from him, from the kiss, from the intimacy of their embrace. "I should get your things," she said in a hushed voice, keeping her gaze studiously averted from his. "I've cleaned since – the last time you were here."

He let her go without protest, but it felt like an escape nonetheless as she hurried down the hall to the spare room, her studio, momentarily closing herself into the closet with her washing machine and dryer. She leaned against the door, fighting to catch her breath, to calm her stomach, to settle the warring emotions still rocking through her.

How was it that seeing him hurt had abruptly unlocked all of these feelings? Why did she suddenly feel so protective of him? He was an adult, after all, and he could take care of himself – but for some reason, he'd come to her instead…

Was it possible that he still loved her? He certainly kissed like he did…but what did that even matter? Men were hard-wired with the desire for physical affection – and they'd kissed plenty of times, even just as "friends."

And it was their friendship that made her feel so confused and wary of this sudden streak of possessiveness, too. Of course it had always troubled her to see him in pain, but this time – _this time_, there was vengeance in her blood. If she ever met the person who did this to him, they would know quite well what it felt like to be gouged by acrylic fingernails and sharp jewelry.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax. Once she'd regained control of herself –and her senses – she pulled out the extra blankets and pillows she'd acquired since Ryan had made her living room sofa his second home.

_His second home…_

The thought lingered in the back of her mind as she made her way back to the living room. He'd already made himself quite at home, having kicked off his shoes (which joined his hoodie on the floor) and turned on her TV, tuning into something relatively quiet. He was lying on his side, resting his head on a throw pillow, when she appeared.

She couldn't resist teasing him, knowing well his penchant for being able to sleep anywhere. "Gee, you already look comfortable to me," she noted dryly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have troubled myself?"

He bestowed his most charming smile upon her. "There's comfortable, and then there's _comfortable_," he replied, reaching for the blankets that she dangled over him, making a big show out of unfurling and snuggling into them.

"Perfect," he declared with a satisfied look, smoothing the blankets around himself. "Well, almost."

"Forget something, did you?" she teased, dropping the pillows directly on his head. She bit back a laugh when he bolted up, sending the pillows flying in all directions.

"I did," he conceded, tossing the throw pillow to the other end of the sofa as he gathered the bed pillows that had landed on the floor in front of him. "But it's not these."

Her heart skipped a beat when he reached for her, his hand closing around hers. "Stay," he pleaded softly.

She could feel her mirth draining away, those treacherous feelings of uncertainty and desire fast rising within her again. She averted her eyes from his, lowering herself to the floor to pick up a discarded pillow. "I shouldn't," she replied somberly.

"Please?"

She clutched the pillow to her chest as he laced his fingers through hers, tracing little circles in the palm of her hand with his thumb, making it hard for her to concentrate on all of the reasons why it would be a bad idea to stay with him…

It was tragic, really, that it had taken something like this to make her realize how she much she still loved him and wanted him and _needed_ him. She'd taken him for granted, because his presence had been steady and constant for the grand majority of her life. She could count on one hand the number of people she knew who could say that they had maintained such a close relationship with an ex:

One.

_Her_.

Because he was more than just an ex. He'd never been "just" an ex. He'd never _be_ just an ex.

Slowly, she stood, rising to her full height, still holding the pillow tight to her chest. "Okay," she agreed softly, sliding over to sit beside him. "Maybe for a little while."

He yawned, and stretched, lowering himself back down on his side, careful to keep his bandaged temple elevated. He adjusted his blankets around himself before resting his hand on her back.

She sat stiffly, trying valiantly to focus with laser-like precision on whatever he was watching (Masterpiece Theater? Of course), to ignore the languid, irregular patterns his fingers were tracing into her side, her hip, her waist, and the way her skin flushed with heat beneath his touch. She knew what he was trying to do, but she was equally determined to not give in to his enticements.

Because if he started something, she wouldn't be able to stop it.

_There's a reason I don't watch much public television_, she reminded herself as her eyes grew bleary and her mind started to wind down. She didn't watch much television at all, truth be told, but she really had no patience for slow-moving drama or Merchant Ivory-style period pieces. Still, she fought the urge to slide down beside him, to burrow under the blankets with him for warmth and companionship. She leaned forward instead, hoping to thwart the impulse to nod off, lest she fall completely off the sofa.

Her eyes were almost completely closed when she felt his fingers inching up her back, twining gently into her hair. "Don't go," he implored, his voice not much more than a whisper. "Please, not yet."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised to see that he was practically asleep already, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a deepening, regular rhythm. She shifted, reaching out for him, fanning her fingers through his dark, glossy hair. He sighed in response, sinking into the overstuffed cushions, his hold on her slowly slipping away.

She leaned down, curling the hand in his hair into a tight fist as she pressed a light kiss to his cheek, just beyond the juncture where tape met gauze. She rested her forehead against his ear, and finally gave in to the overwhelming waves of emotion that had churned up inside her. She was _so tired_ of fighting her feelings – even if she couldn't indulge them, maybe she could at least _ease_ them…

She sank down beside him, on top of his blankets, her back to his chest, and curled her body into his. She laid there for as long as she could stand it – long enough for him to sense her presence and wrap his arms around her, bringing her close; long enough for the tension locked between her shoulders to melt away; long enough for her heart to swell and shatter into thousands of tiny pieces at the thought of him being so close, and yet so very far away.

_I can't do this anymore_, she realized, tears welling up behind her eyes. _I can't keep pretending that our friendship is enough._ It wasn't – and maybe it never had been – but she hadn't comprehended it until now, until this very moment, when the last thing she wanted to do was leave him. She wanted to keep him, and to take care of him, and to be there with him, always.

She eased out of his hold, picking herself up from the sofa, her heart as heavy as her footsteps as she left him, alone.

She'd asked him to live with her before, but he'd never actually agreed to do it. Maybe it was because he never thought she was serious; maybe it was because he'd somehow sensed that they were usually half-hearted requests, aimed more at staving off her loneliness rather than satisfying a specific need to be with _him_.

Would he believe her this time, if she told him the truth – that as sudden and crazy as this all was, she was serious about wanting him as more than just a friend? Would he accept her offer this time?

Could she live with herself if he didn't?

There was only one way to know for sure.

Few people knew how selfishly she loved – and, in fact, there was only one person in the world who understood her enough to consider forgiving her for it.

She could only hope that it wasn't too late to find out.


End file.
